and the girl, the girl is torn, torn because she doesn’t know what to do; never knows what to do.
DO WHAT IS RIGHT AND JUST
and for whatever is “right” and :just”, there are, perhaps, infinite things neither “right” nor “just” .
And so, so she follows the heart, or tries to, which, once or twice, led her astray- like the time she found herself crying, alone, at a gas station in Pasadena- convulsive, wretched sobs. Sobs that make fingers, hands and wrists go numb- sobs that no more belong on the highway than they do in dark bathrooms, railcards, crack houses- under bridges, overpasses.